


Scarlet

by calystegiia



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga
Genre: F/M, and its me, anyway theres a bit of, blood and stuff like that. it was originally like vent work but dds always needs new fics, david gale - Freeform, i like david :), jenna angel - Freeform, someone has to write for them ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 12:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20706215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calystegiia/pseuds/calystegiia
Summary: They know him, he should know them, but it registers blank in his mind. The distinguishable feature of the figure is tumbles of dark hair, and tears that drip from their face to his. There is a pain in his heart at the thought and emptiness that drenches him in new fear. Their grip is tight on his body, there are a thousand words that are burning on his tongue, restricted, as he chokes. There is something he has to tell them, it feels so important that he will use his remaining strength to grab their arms, overcome with new ambition—he will tell them before he dies.But he drowns.





	Scarlet

**Author's Note:**

> i have not posted writing since 2012 so im sorry! This is really going to turn into a myriad of different works I have for David Gale and Jenna! As much as I would enjoy creating separate fics they're all going to tie in together or smth, so like. a

His death comes to him in the form of a dream; a nightmare.

The dream is tainted by a dark sky, heavy with clouds burning in crimson. They poison the air with heavy smoke that bleeds from the building like an open wound. the burning emotion of crimson. The clouds are a choking smog, they carry with them a current of iron that burns his eyes and dizzies him. 

Each breath is grueling, coated with fluid that he chokes on, it gurgles in his throat. the inability to breathe properly deepens his panic, and has him craving for a breath that he doesn’t have to drink down. Buzzing static, his mind is blank, interrupted only by the wailing around him that fades in and out. It’s indiscernible, they call for names of people he doesn’t recognize—should recognize, between the waves of sirens. Silence is only created by the abruptness of their death. 

David is laying on his back. His vision is blurred, his glasses are broken, resting crooked on his nose. His head feels like cotton, his ears ringing. David is unsure of what happened, he remembers a flash of light, then nothing.

When he came to, he was face to face with a man. They stared at one another, though David had life in his eyes, and the man did not. Blood pools underneath a charred body, limbs clinging desperately to a lifeline of exposed tissue and muscle. The skin on his face had melted from the fire, cascading off the muscle like sheets of ice to the dirt below. It’s a staring competition, forced to stare at exposed muscle and pulsating brain matter that squelches when the body twitches. David wonders if there’s any bit of his soul left, and if he was suffering, choking on the last breaths—that it will end quickly. 

He cannot think past his own being, and scarlet. The world distorts further, the shade of red deepening as his eyes water. It’s hard to focus, the romanticism of it all being that this was the beginning of the burning sun. The last remnant of God that man would see.

It takes him a moment to realize that his body had begun to move. Not of his own volition, but of someone else who struggles with his weight. They hold him from under the arms, struggling with his weight. His skin is pinched, unintentionally, but from their own inability to carry him. His shoulder blades are grinding uncomfortably against the other bones of his arms, dislocated—he diagnoses himself. His legs rag doll pathetically in front of him, they’re bent at odd angles. He’s glad he cannot see them, staring blankly at the legs in front of him. They look wrong, mangled, bent beyond human recognition, yet painless. There is the occasional phantom pain, but it’s the imagined feeling of glass shredding his pants and digging into sensitive burned flesh.

Their inability to pull him steadily hits his body on every debris piece. He groans, a wet sound that gurgles from blood that pooled in the back of his throat. The person dragging him says something, he can’t process it, their tone is frantic, and the words sound foreign. He ignores it, focusing instead of the scene in front of him. 

It feels painted, the reds and golds of the fire that burned his eyes with their extravagant light against the almost black of the sky. Whether day or night, he can’t tell. His glasses must be broken, though he can see the frames, mangled, but still resting on the bridge of his nose. David fears the location of the broken glass.

Intense dread that radiates from the figure holding him increases the suffocation of the air. They keep him awkwardly leveled before they finally stop, a decision that flashes his body between white everything and black nothing. A mix of exhaustion, or determination to keep him here—his body drops from their grasp. His head snapping back as it hits the dirt, and then he’s moved again, he wants them to stop. 

David wants to speak to them, but the only sounds he can make are gurgles from low in his throat that is flooded by blood and saliva. His desperation for air that is not tainted with iron furthers his agony. The figure is trying to scrape out as much blood and debris from his mouth as they can, but their finger hooked against his cheek and tongue makes it worse. He gags. Regurgitated blood stains the cracks of his lips and trickles down his cheek, he’s spitting blood out with his remaining will, however it’s similar to bucketing water off the Titanic. A part of him screams for it to stop, it screams for the end, but self preservation keeps him fighting, not allowing it to quit. David is afraid to die. The figure continues to wipe blood away, but it spreads further, it does nothing to ease his situation, but they try with desperation that matches his. Blood has stained everything around him, including the figure above him. They sob loudly, crying out his name, the only word he’s been able to recognize. 

They know him, he should know them, but it registers blank in his mind. The distinguishable feature of the figure is tumbles of dark hair, and tears that drip from their face to his. There is a pain in his heart at the thought and emptiness that drenches him in new fear. Their grip is tight on his body, there are a thousand words that are burning on his tongue, restricted, as he chokes. There is something he has to tell them, it feels so important that he will use his remaining strength to grab their arms, overcome with new ambition—he will tell them before he dies. 

But he drowns. 

David wakes up sweating, gasping for breath and shaking. His hands go to his face, frantically clawing away the blood he imagines to have coated his skin. Around cracked lips is dried spit. A combination of tears and sweat soaked his cheeks and front of his shirt. Unspoiled, the air is sweet and fresh, free of the pollutants of blood and smog. He gulps it down, trying to keep his breathing quiet—the choking sensation stays with him. 

No longer hot and scarlet, the room is dark. Underneath the window is a pool of light from the sun, beginning its rise. The light reflects off the fan in the cornering, humming gently to itself. It grounds him, reminding him that he’s in their room, there is no danger waiting in each corner. 

Inside the bedroom, the curtains are still drawn over the windows and the sleeping figure beside him is silent. Despite the protest of the bed that groaned when he jolted up and his disarray, she hasn’t stirred. David has never woken Jenna when he has these nightmares, she’s a heavy sleeper when chosen to be. His hand reaches out but stops before he can nudge her shoulder. Though his desire for human contact is urgent, David hesitates to open up with his partner. He feels alone, the room feels too quiet as if he had stumbled into someone else's world, isolated.

When he feels that way he has to leave the room that has the resemblance of a deathbed. It’s suffocating. His side of the bed is drenched in sweat, his clothing too. He needs air. Aching with phantom pains, his stomach still feels the impact. His mouth is hot and tastes metallic. He hovers his hand over it checking for an imaginary wound, his shirt is only damp from sweat, not blood. He sways, movements feeling robotic as he makes his way to the bathroom. The fluorescent lights blind him when he flicks the light on, and in the rush from the bedroom to the bathroom his glasses are forgotten. Greeting him in the reflection is a figure, indistinguishable, but his own. Unlike the person who he was possessing from his nightmare, there is no wound. He checks under his shirt in case, pressing on his lower abdomen to see if his fingers would enter a wound. He is himself. He has to calm down. 

Nightmares come frequently these days. They all end with him on his deathbed, and no matter the location they share a burning sky. It has to be a warning, he thinks. His mother experienced many dreams that pertained to her downfall, she shared with him when he was in college. They were too heavy to hear between finals, he often regrets brushing her off. She warned him that dreaming of your death would often lead you to doom, it wasn’t outside of your subconscious to put you in perilous situations, but, self-preservation would kick in before it was too late. It would be something else that stopped that instinct. It was a promise, a warning. It haunted him, he feared them. It was ingrained into his memory that these were often a precursor, the superstitions that were passed from his mother could kill him if he let them. David tells himself they were dreams, anxieties projected from his subconscious. There was no science backing her theories, David did not have the luxury to be superstitious. 

“David?” Her voice is low, tired. He had been clenching his hands in fists pressed against the bathroom counter. There is a faint stinging in his palms where his nails had dug in moments prior.

His name is the first thing she says when she wakes up, and sometimes it’s the last thing murmured before she falls asleep. 

“Ah. Sorry, did I wake you?” 

“I’ve been awake for some time now.” He wonders if he cried out at all. 

She’s standing in the door frame, arms crossed over her bare chest. He can’t make out her expression but he’s positive she’s frowning. Jenna is always frowning.

“What time is it?”

“Quarter to five.“ They stand adjacent from each other, neither of them attempting to reach out. Jenna keeps her arms folded, David grips the counter for dear life.

It was earlier than either of them intended to wake up. Another twenty-five minutes would have been bliss before the beeping of their coffee machine, an accidental alarm, made one of them get up from the bed.

“Did I wake you?” He asks again, running a hand through his hair. It’s damp with sweat, his bangs fall back in a clump as his hand returns to his side.

She’s silent for a moment longer than is comfortable. The answer is clear.

“Sorry.” 

Jenna says nothing. Sleep is infrequent for the couple as well as time together. Hours are spent working and moments away from paperwork are precious. Some nights they spend hours kissing, in no hurry to get undressed but with an undertone of urgency, as if one of them were going to slip away. He loves her.

That time is even more important since his nightmares. He wakes up fearful that she isn’t next to him. The dreams are isolating and he wakes up afraid to be alone. Though it must be bothering to feel his hand press into her shoulder blades to make sure she's there.

“Do you want coffee?” She's still standing in the doorway, she hasn’t moved. Nor has he, though he’s turned his attention back to the reflection in the mirror.

“Please.”


End file.
